Catch Me

  Detective O shrugged; given that the perpetrator was now dead, there wasn’t any way of answering such questions.

  “The sixteen-year-old had just exposed himself,” O said, “when the woman appeared. The victim didn’t recognize her and has no memory of her following them. But she seemed to know the sixteen-year-old, implied that she’d been watching him. She identified herself as a gamer from the same website.”

  D.D. stood up, frowning. “Really? So while one user is targeting kids, another user is targeting the predator. And both were able to find their victims in real life? But how? Isn’t that supposed to be the hard part?”

  “Sixteen-year-old probably targeted the younger based on his stated interest in the Red Sox. Once sixteen-year-old established that the boy lived in Boston, he sent an e-mail inviting him to the library, which, as a public place, seemed harmless enough.”

  “Lured him in.”

  “Exactly. As for our Femme Nikita,” O shrugged, “there are several tools available to her. Personally, I’d start by running my target’s user name through Spokeo, to find other sites he visited. Given ‘Barry’ was sixteen, one of the first sites that would probably come up is his Facebook page. So I’d visit there, study his photo, identify friends, hobbies, interests. Better yet, Facebook has a feature, called Facebook Places or Check In. Meaning that when ‘Barry’ posts while at the Boston library, that site automatically shows up as part of the post. Now, La Femme Nikita can follow all of Barry’s comings and goings, including that he was at the Boston Public Library tonight. Assuming she has a smartphone, she doesn’t even need to lug around a laptop. She simply carries her smartphone in one hand, her gun in the other, and lets Barry tell her exactly where he’s going and what he’s doing. Takes all the fun out of stalking if you ask me.”

  D.D. shook her head, gazing down at the snowy shadow of a dead kid. “But you said the sixteen-year-old targeted his victim at a gaming website, not the chat room you and Phil discussed earlier?”

  “Not the chat room. AthleteAnimalz.com, however, is a major corporate kiddie site. Chances are, our first two pedophiles roamed there as well.”

  “Meaning that’s the connection, not the chat room.”

  “Or all of the above. The pedophile community isn’t that large. It’s not unreasonable that their paths crossed in several different sites on the Web.”

  D.D. could buy that. She straightened, working on getting the choreography established in her head. “Sixteen-year-old boy targets seven-year-old-boy. Lures him to dark alley. Then…this woman appears. What happened next?”

  “According to our seven-year-old witness, she was already holding the twenty-two. Pretty much ignored the younger boy, homed straight in on Barry. Of course, at this point, Barry had his pants unzipped and was holding his penis, making himself the obvious target.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “Not much. Confirmed the older boy’s Internet identity as Pink Poodle—”

  “A sixteen-year-old boy is Pink Poodle?”

  “Welcome to the Internet. And for the record, that strategy helped him. The seven-year-old agreed to meet tonight in part because he assumed he’d be meeting a girl, and who’s afraid of a girl?”

  “Shit,” D.D. said.

  “The shooter then identified herself as Helmet Hippo, another user from the website. Teenager tried to defend himself. Argued his age, said he’d change.”

  D.D. looked down at the snow angel. “Obviously, that didn’t work.” But it bothered her again. Sixteen years old. Shot down in cold blood. What if he could’ve changed? The courts probably wouldn’t have tried him as an adult, but another citizen had. Tried him and executed him in a matter of minutes.

  “The woman stated he’d been a very naughty boy, ordered him to be brave, then shot him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Granted, our witness is young and traumatized, but his best guess is that the entire altercation took about three minutes.”

  “Be brave, you said. Was there a note?” D.D. asked. “Everyone has to die sometime, yada yada yada.”

  “Tucked inside the victim’s coat. Most likely written in advance, as, according to the witness, she didn’t have time to write anything at the scene. He saw her bend over the body, however, probably placing the paper in the victim’s jacket.”

  “So definitely the same shooter. Refining her game now. Not just picking off pedophiles, but rescuing their victims.”

  “In her mind, I’m sure she had a good night.”

  “What happened after she shot the sixteen-year-old?”

  “The shooter introduced herself to the witness, told him not to worry, then walked away.”

  D.D. arched a brow. “Which way did she exit?”

  “To the left. The boy didn’t follow, though. He stood there a minute longer, then bolted back to the library, where his mother had alerted the staff she couldn’t find him. They were going to lock down, police had just been called, when he came tearing up the steps. He was hysterical, she became hysterical. It took five or ten minutes to sort things out. Then uniformed officers immediately dispatched to this location, while broadcasting the woman’s description, but no hits.”

  D.D. wasn’t surprised. Anyone could disappear in Boston. Which is why Charlene Grant had originally moved here.

  D.D. thought about it. “That the Internet user was sixteen should’ve startled her. Made her pause, ask more questions, something. But it didn’t. Meaning your theory stands to reason—she’d been stalking her target for a bit, visiting his Facebook page, maybe even following him in person on other occasions. She wasn’t surprised by his age or his actions. She expected both.”

  “Premeditation,” O supplied. “Planning. Strategy.”

  “Smart. Adept with computers. Patient.”

  “Controlled,” O added to their profile of the shooter. “She shot the sixteen-year-old, then walked away. No collateral damage, no fussing with the witness. Just in, out, done.”

  “Where’s the witness now?”

  “Back of a squad car with his mother. We’re arranging for a forensic interviewer who specializes in children to meet them at HQ.”

  “Can he talk?”

  O shrugged. “Last time I saw him, he clung to his mother and didn’t say a word.”

  “I’d like to try.”

  O hesitated. D.D. looked at her. “What?”

  “You have any experience with kids?”

  “Worked a case where a four-year-old was the prime witness.”

  “Look, you may be older and wiser,” O drawled, “but I’m sex crimes, and unfortunately, most of my cases involve questioning kids. So take it from me, you can’t screw this up. You lead the witness here, and that contamination will carry. Then the entire interview will be tossed, and we’ll have no grounds for arresting our prime suspect, Charlene blah blah Grant. You gotta be smart.”

  “Then I’ll leave the stupid questions at home.”

  O still didn’t seem happy, but she turned away from the alley, returning in the direction of the flashing cruiser lights. The little boy and his mother were huddled in the back of the first patrol car. The door was open, probably to make them feel less like prisoners. But it also let in the chill, and both the boy and his mother were shivering. The mom held a cardboard cup of steaming beverage, probably coffee, but she wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it, as if willing the warmth to make a difference.

  The little boy didn’t look up when they approached. He was leaning against his mother’s side, his tiny form nearly lost in an oversized black winter coat, hat, scarf, and mittens. D.D. had an impression of dark eyes and a pale pinched face, then he turned away from her.

  The mother had her left arm around her son. She had the same pale features and haunted expression as the boy. But her jaw was set, her lips thinned into a resolute line.

  “Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. said to introduce herself. It sounded as if they’d already met O.


  “Jennifer Germaine.” The woman nodded, as she didn’t have a free hand to offer. She nudged her son, but he didn’t look up. “My son, Jesse,” she said after another moment.

  “How are you doing, Jesse?” D.D. asked.

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “Fair enough,” she agreed. “I’m not having the best night either.”

  He turned slightly, stared at her with a wary expression.

  “I’m supposed to be having dinner with my mother. She came all the way from Florida to see me. But I had to leave. She’s not very happy with me. It doesn’t feel good, to have my mom not very happy with me.”

  Jesse’s lower lip trembled.

  “But I also know she understands,” D.D. continued. “It’s the cool thing about moms. They always love us, huh?”

  Jennifer’s arm tightened around her son. He pressed himself harder against her side.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice coming out hoarse and raspy. Maybe from crying now, or screaming earlier.

  “Why are you sorry?” D.D. asked, keeping her voice conversational.

  “I was a bad boy.”

  “Why do you say that?” Open-ended questions. That was the deal with kids—can’t imply, can’t lead, can only ask open-ended questions.

  “Stranger Danger. Don’t talk to strangers online. Don’t meet strangers. Don’t go away with strangers. My mommy told me. I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  The little boy started to cry. His mother stroked his hair, then leaned over his head, murmuring low words of comfort.

  “Thank you for returning to the library tonight,” D.D. said.

  The boy looked up slightly.

  “That was quick thinking. You had to find your way back through the city streets, which I personally find very confusing at night. But you did. You found your mother, you notified the police. Very brave of you. Have you ever walked the city alone, Jesse?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Then kudos. You kept a cool head. Bet your mom’s pretty proud of you for that.”

  Jennifer nodded against the top of her son’s head.

  “I need you to be brave for me now, Jesse. Just a little bit longer, okay? Just relax, snuggled up next to your mom, and think about a couple of things for me.”

  The little boy nodded, just slightly.

  “Can you tell us what happened tonight, Jesse? In your own words. Take your time.”

  Jesse didn’t start talking right away. His mother bent over again. “Jenny and Jesse against the world,” D.D. heard her whisper to him. “Remember, Jenny and Jesse against the world. Hold my hand. We can do this.”

  The little boy took his mother’s hand. Then, he began to speak.

  It was a pretty straightforward tale. A sixteen-year-old boy named Barry spent his afternoons gaming online as a pink poodle. He racked up points, he gained attention. He sent out e-mails to other gamers, offering friendship and help.

  Jesse had taken the bait.

  He’d assumed he had nothing to fear from a poodle, a meeting in a public library, and a rendezvous with a presumed girl. And so it went, right up to the second Jesse found himself standing in a back alley, too scared to run, too shocked to scream.

  He couldn’t tell them much about the woman. Her arrival had startled him. Her gun had terrified him. Mostly, he remembered her eyes. Bright, bright blue eyes.

  “Crazy eyes,” Jesse breathed softly. “Creepy, like blue cat eyes.” He looked up at them. “I think she’s an alien or maybe a robot or a monster. She…she hurt him. And…and I was happy.”

  His gaze dropped again, and he buried himself suddenly, tightly, into his mother’s embrace.

  “I’m sorry,” the little boy moaned, voice muffled against his mother’s coat. “I was bad. And there was this noise, and he’s dead. And I was bad and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mommy, I won’t ever do it again. I promise, I promise, I promise.”

  D.D. looked away. She didn’t know what hurt worse, the boy’s obvious pain, or his mother’s, as she put her other arm around him and rocked him against her, trying to soothe, clearly knowing it wasn’t enough.

  “I would like to take him home,” the woman said. “It’s late.” She added as an afterthought, “He has school tomorrow.”

  Then her face suddenly crumpled, as if understanding for the first time that school in the morning probably wasn’t going to happen. That tonight had been bigger than that. That this was one of those things that would take more than a good night’s sleep to recover from.

  Detective O stepped forward to explain about the interview with the forensic specialist, which needed to happen sooner versus later, as children’s memories were highly pliable.

  Jesse’s mom shook her head, clearly becoming as overwhelmed and shell-shocked as her son.

  D.D. reached out and squeezed the woman’s hand. “Just another hour,” she said encouragingly to the woman. “Then you can both go home. And tomorrow will be better than today, and the next day will be better than that. It will get better.”

  The woman looked at her. “I love him so much.”

  “I know.”

  “I would do anything for him. I would give my life for him. I was just looking up a school assignment. Fifteen minutes we’d be apart. We’d done it before and he’s at that age. He doesn’t always want his mother around anymore. And I want him to feel strong. I want him to feel safe.”

  “I know.”

  “I would do anything for him.”

  “The interview will help,” D.D. assured her. “I know it sounds scary, but telling his story will allow Jesse to own it. It will become less and less something that happened to him, and more and more something he can narrate, take control over. We’ve seen it with other kids. Talking helps them. Holding it inside, not so good.”

  Jenny sighed, rested her cheek on top of her son’s head. “Jenny and Jesse against the world,” she murmured.

  “You’re a good mom.”

  “I should’ve done more.”

  “Story of a mother’s life.”

  “Do you have a child?”

  “Ten weeks old, already the love of my life.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I hope I never have to find out.”

  “Please…”

  D.D. hesitated, then answered as honestly as she could: “I would try to help him find his strength. The bad part already happened. Now it’s about helping Jesse find his way to the other side. Where he’s no longer the victim, but the one in control. Where he can feel strong. Where he can feel safe.”

  The woman stared at her, seemed to be studying her face. “We’ll go to headquarters,” she said at last. “We’ll meet with the interview…expert.”

  “We’ll have a victim’s advocate meet you there as well,” D.D. told her. “There are resources for you and your son. Please don’t be afraid to use them.”

  D.D. handed over her card, then straightened, jamming her freezing cold gloved hands back into her coat pockets.

  “Thank you for your help, Jesse,” D.D. said. “I appreciate you answering my questions.”

  The boy didn’t look up, didn’t respond.

  She said to his mother: “Take care of your son.”

  “Oh, I will, Detective. I will.”

  D.D. stepped away, heading over to O. She’d just paused beside the sex crimes detective when a startled cry went up. Both investigators turned to see a uniformed officer waving for them furiously from the first patrol car.

  “Detectives,” he called. “Quick! You gotta see this!”

  D.D. and O exchanged glances, then made their way precariously down the icy sidewalk. The uniformed patrol officer had the passenger-side door open and was gesturing inside excitedly.

  “On the dashboard,” he said urgently. “Don’t move it. I’d just set it there, you know, to deliver to the evidence room later. Course, I got the heat running, then when I looked in…”

  It appea
red to be the shooter’s note, now encased in clear plastic. A full sheet, the letters scripted in the familiar precisely formed, elegantly rounded letters. Except, as D.D. looked closer, she suddenly spotted other letters so small and jumbled together, they first appeared as a blemish or blur.

  She looked up abruptly, glancing at the uniformed officer. “Did you touch this, mess with it in any way?”

  She stood back, allowed O to take a look.

  “No, no, no,” Officer Piotrow assured her hastily. “It’s the heat. When I saw that something seemed to have happened, I picked up the note, and I’ll be damned if the letters didn’t immediately disappear. But then I set the paper back down on the hot dash…”

  D.D. felt her heart quicken.

  “I think it’s lemon juice,” the officer was saying. “My kid did this experiment once in grade school. You can write secret notes with lemon juice—the words will disappear when the lemon juice dries, but reappear when you hold the note over a hot lightbulb. I think my dash is the lightbulb.”

  “A note within a note,” Detective O murmured, still leaning over the paper. “Different penmanship.”

  “Different sentiment,” D.D. replied tersely, chewing her lower lip.

  The first note, Everyone dies sometime. Be brave, was scrawled in the usual large rounded script.

  In contrast, the hidden message was much smaller, jumbled letters hastily scrawled and crammed into a space smaller than a dime.

  An order. A taunt. Or maybe even a plea:

  Two simple words: Catch Me.

  Chapter 26

  HELLO. My name is Abigail.

  Don’t worry, we’ve met.

  Trust me, and I will take care of you.

  Don’t you trust me?

  Hello. My name is Abigail.

  Chapter 27

  IT FELT GOOD TO HIT.

  I liked the satisfying thwack of my gloved fist making hard contact with the heavy bag. I liked the feel of my front leg pivoting, my hips rotating, and my shoulder rolling as I snapped my entire body behind the blow. Jab, jab, jab, uppercut, roundhouse, feint left, left hook downstairs, left hook upstairs, second roundhouse, V-step right, jab left, punch right, dodge low, uppercut, repeat. Hit, move, hit harder, move faster. Hit.